Chapter 8.

Brave.

Carl.

Carl slashed his stick through the air, pretending there was a walker closing in. He was dressed down in sweltering jeans and a soaked baseball shirt, a wide-brimmed hat perched proudly on his head. He wanted to be just like his father. It showed in everything he did – the way he held himself, how he squared his shoulders, how he shouted, "Get behind me, I'll protect you!" to the imaginary people cowering nearby. He lunged, slicing the walker clean in half with a single blow, laughing triumphantly as the thing fell to pieces on the ground in front of him.

His celebration came too soon. He stepped back, tripped, and rolled head-over-heels into the side of the RV. He bounced off of it and hit the ground with a solid oomph.

His mother glanced up from the clothesline, laughter in her eyes, "You okay?"

Carl scrambled to his feet, flushing as more eyes landed on him, "I'm fine. I was just… practicing, for if I have to protect the camp."

"I think your hat is throwing you off-balance."

Carl snatched the hat from the ground, dusting it and holding it protectively against his chest, "Dad told me to keep it safe while he was gone."

He held the hat up, examining it, making sure he hadn't hurt it. It was dark brown, with a gold rope wrapped twice around its bulk, the tassels tied in a knot at the front. It had a silver sheriff badge on it – King County. His dad looked like a superhero when he had it on. Carl wondered suddenly if he looked as cool when he was wearing it.

"Come over here and hold this sheet for me," his mother called.

Carl joined her reluctantly, replacing the hat on his head. He held up the edge of a sheet while she pinned the rest to the line, his eyes and his mind wandering away.

He was up here with all the girls. His dad and Shane were out patrolling in the woods, Glenn was probably running around the flaming streets of Atlanta stealing groceries right out of walkers' mouths, Dale was on top of the RV keeping watch, and every other man was down by the water, probably fishing or guarding the camp or something important. But he was stuck here, with the laundry, where his mom could keep an eye on him.

"Mom, can I go on patrol with Dad next time?"

"No. Hang this up."

Carl slung a shirt over the line, huffing, "Why not?"

"Because I said so." She glanced at him, sighing, "Because you have some more growing to do before you're ready to be out there, baby."

"But I can do it!"

"Carl-"

"You never let me do anything fun! You never even let me try!"

"It's not fun, Carl, it's dangerous. Your dad isn't out there because he was bored of being in camp. He's out there to keep us safe."

"I can do that, too!"

"How many times do we have to have this talk?" she said, becoming irritated. "You and the other kids stay in camp. You're not ready to go out there. End of discussion."

"But if Dad taught me how to fight-"

"It's not happening," she cut him off, holding the laundry basket against her hip. "Your dad is gonna say the same thing when he gets back."

Carl groaned, "But I-"

"No, we're done discussing this. You just have to trust that I know what's best."

Carl left, his head whirring. Mom had no idea what he could do. Dad was too busy all the time. Everyone he asked to teach him how to fight turned him down. He was the oldest boy in camp, and the only other kid who was his age was Sophia – and she barely ever said anything. He was so bored he thought he might die – and he knew he could do this.

He sulked beside the RV for a while before something changed.

Daryl strode across camp, a tatty backpack on his shoulders, his crossbow gripped in his right hand. He made Carl think of a crazy woodsman, like a villain in a cartoon, with his spiky, unbrushed hair and his angry face. He always looked like he wanted to punch someone. He never said much, he was never around much, because he did what he wanted.

Was he hunting walkers? He sure looked ready to shoot something.

"You thinkin' 'bout leaving?"

Carl looked around, his pulse pounding. Roy was standing at the back of the RV, leaning against it, smoking a cigarette. He reminded Carl of one of his uncles – a big strong guy. His eyes were strangely red, like he had been rubbing them.

"I was just…" Carl trailed off, looking at the woods again.

"Only way to learn is to watch. Mommas never know best, I can tell you that right now." He took a long puff of his cigarette, held it, and then breathed a line of smoke. "I heard you over there. You got guts. You have this fire in you, kid, and this freedom."

Carl took a shaky breath as the idea of rebelling took root in his head. His mom was turned away, talking to Carol, and Dale had his eyeballs in his binoculars.

"If you stay close to Daryl, if anything happens, you can just call out to him, right?"

It made sense.

Carl crept toward the woods, as tense as he could be without exploding. He took another step, and another, and another. No alarms were raised when he passed the first tree, or the second.

And suddenly he was running.

Carl felt liberated. He streaked through the trees, hitting trunks with his open palm as he passed, grinning at his newfound freedom. He stopped a short distance in to look for Daryl. If he stayed close, he could watch him kill walkers and be safe at the same time. Once he saw a few he could sneak back into camp and surprise everyone with his new skill.

But as he searched, his excitement waned.

Where was Daryl? He heard nothing and saw nothing through the maze of trees – or he heard too much and saw too much. Birds were chirping, squirrels were rustling around, the wind was rattling the leaves. Every tree looked a little different, but too much the same.

Suddenly he stopped.

Carl turned back the way he had come.

Was that the way?

He turned again, finding the trees all very similar. Maybe it was the other way. He turned a third time, to another unfamiliar patch of forest. His heart was starting to race. It had to be this way. Carl started walking again, slow and unsteady, meandering. He scanned the trees fruitlessly.

When ten minutes had passed with no sign of the camp and no sign of Daryl, he started calling out for help. He cut himself off, though, when he remembered the walkers liked loud noises.

He would have to find his way back on his own.

He wandered for hours, growing more frantic as time went on. It was hot and his clothes were soaked through with sweat, but his pace was quick. His path meandered up and down the mountain. He thought he might have gone too high, so he took a few steep slopes, but then he was probably too low, so he climbed up a broken boulder. Everything looked the same – every tree, every bit of sky, every clump of undergrowth.

He stopped when he saw something moving up ahead.

Carl thought about calling out again. His mouth opened, the words formed, but something stopped him. He went closer, unable to make it out clearly as it moved between the trees. He thought he recognized a tattered backpack and his heart jumped, "Daryl!"

But a walker turned around.

He suddenly crashed back into the highway, back into that night, when the world was ending, and his parents were screaming and groaning dead people were banging on the car windows. His knees locked. His heart sputtered. He looked behind him, expecting his dad to appear to save the day.

But he was alone.

Carl looked at the hideous thing, the light missing from its eyes, its jaw clicking, and his body suddenly unlocked. He turned and ran, adrenaline pushing him faster, making him clumsier. He heard the walker giving chase behind him, snapping limbs, rustling leaves, groaning excitedly. Carl kept looking back, sure that he felt its hands reaching out for him, sure that it was right behind him, but every glance back made him trip, made him fumble.

While he was looking back, the ground gave way.

His ankle buckled. He rolled down a slope, down and down and down, until he thudded to the ground far below where he had started. He was dazed, but he scrambled upright, snatching his hat off the ground. Up above, a limb snapped as the walker rolled down after him, bouncing around like a doll all the way to the bottom.

He was in a ravine, flanked on both sides by splintered boulders, up against a crack that seemed to go through the earth itself. Carl could not fit inside. The walker stood between him and freedom. Just behind it, the slope leading out was gentler, and daylight poured in.

Carl backed up to the crack, hoping the walker did not see him, but the moment it was back on its feet it was coming toward him.

"Help!" he screamed, scraping around for something to protect himself with. He had nothing. He grasped a root and tried to pull it free of the rocks, but it wouldn't budge. "Help! Please! Help! Mom! Dad! Mom!"

His cries became sobs. He picked up a rock from below him and held it out defensively, screwing his eyes shut as the walker came in to close the distance between them.

It hit him full force, a massive weight knocking him down and holding him against the crack. Carl screamed, but the biting and clawing never came. It just lay on him, its weight squishing him. He dared open his eyes, trying to push his way free, but the body was too heavy.

Precious seconds passed, and then he heard the voice,

"Hey, you dead?"

Carl jumped, "Help!"

He was there all of the sudden.

Daryl appeared over him, hauling the walker off and grabbing him by his shirt collar. He dragged Carl out of the corner and dropped him in the open. Carl doubled over and vomited up his breakfast, his head throbbing, his hands trembling. He could scarcely get his jaw to shut, let alone form a sentence, or a thought.

His rescuer crouched in front of him, grabbing his head in one big hand and turning it roughly this way and that. He looked him up and down, and huffed, "You're fine. Stop cryin'."

"I-I-I can't," Carl sobbed.

"Okay, keep crying. But follow me. I ain't carryin' your ass."

Carl scrambled to his feet, sticking close to Daryl as he picked his way up the ravine. Carl slipped a few times, but fear got him back on his feet. When they were at the top, Carl had jelly legs. He tried to keep following but fell down to his knees over and over. Eventually he was shaking too much to get back up. He whimpered, "Help."

Daryl stopped, groaning, his face as unreadable as ever. Carl could never see anything under his anger – or maybe that was just the face he wore when he wasn't thinking about it. He had a few squirrels tied to a string and slung around his neck.

"What're you doin' out here, anyway?" Daryl asked, finally having some mercy and pulling a canteen from his hip. "Were you with someone?"

"No." Carl drank most of the water. It made his stomach twist into knots.

Daryl settled down, propping his arms on his knees, "Just wanderin' off, then?"

Carl said nothing, shame welling up inside.

"You seen them things in action?"

Carl nodded, "When we were on the road that night."

"But it was dark, right?"

He shrugged.

Daryl scratched his head, knocking a few leaves out of his dirty hair. His voice was low and grainy. "You got balls of steel for comin' out here, kid, but you was one step away from bein' dinner. One bite, one scratch, and it's over. You best believe I would put you down."

He believed it.

Carl thought he should be afraid. He shuddered like a cold wind had passed through him, even though it was sweltering outside. But it was not because of Daryl, or his promise. It was like the last of his shock was fading away, and he could think again.

"I wanted to learn how to fight walkers, like you."

"Bad idea."

"Roy thought it was a good idea."

Daryl looked sharply at him, right in his eyes, and then looked away again. "You got no one to blame but yourself. You did this. If you died, it would've been your fault."

Carl swallowed, hit with the weight of those words.

"Come on. Long walk back to camp. Your folks are prolly out lookin' for you by now."

It was a horrible walk, but Carl did his best not to show any more weakness in front of Daryl. His courage gradually returned, and his stomach settled down. He imagined how it would have gone differently if he had had a weapon in the ravine.

It was quiet in the camp.

Carl was out in the open first, tensed and ready for his mom to come yell at him, but she was not there – neither was his dad. Dale spotted him from atop the RV and nearly fell climbing down the ladder. He let his binoculars swing around his neck as he approached.

"Where did you find him?" he asked Daryl, looking shocked as he put a hand on Carl, "Are you okay? What happened? Did you get lost?"

Carl buckled now that a nice adult was talking to him. He felt the tears start up in his eyes, hot on his cheeks, and wrapped his arms around Dale, holding on as tight as he could. Dale said something else, a few things, but Carl could not hear him. He held on until someone pried him off.

It was his mother.

Dale said, "Daryl found him in the woods."

His mother was suddenly shouting, "What the hell did you do to him?"

Carl looked up, startled, to find her staring daggers at Daryl. He was hanging out by his brother, near their motorcycle, scowling at everyone. Merle was bigger and scarier than Daryl.

"I ain't do shit but bring him back, and you best watch your tone!" Daryl responded.

His father appeared nearby, his hand on Carl's back, "What happened?"

Carl was the one to answer, in a trembling voice. He was afraid they would start fighting. He pressed his face against his mom and said, "It was my fault. I got lost."

His mom pulled her eyes from Daryl, down to him, confused and surprised, "What? Why were you in the woods? You know you're not supposed to leave camp! What were you thinking!"

His face got hot, because all eyes were still on him. He struggled to find words. "I… I, uh…"

His father said, "Explain yourself, now."

"I was being stupid," Carl said at last, reluctant to admit that he had listened to Roy, that he had followed Daryl into the woods to learn how to fight walkers. "I got lost. I fell into this big hole, and there was a walker, and it almost got me, but Daryl saved me. He killed it and brought me back here."

He looked up, hoping Daryl would forgive him, but he had disappeared.

His father looked after him, frowning, "Is that the whole truth, Carl?"

Carl nodded pitifully, "Yeah."

His mom held him tighter, almost too tight, whispering, "Oh, god…"

Carl felt terrible to make his mom cry like this. He had messed up – bad. He shut his eyes and tried to pretend this was not happening. "I'm sorry, Mom."

"Don't ever do that to me again," she said.

"I won't. I swear."